Triangle trauma and other eerie conditions

Atomismo Visual

2012-02-02T23:39:00.002Z

Leí que había un chico ciborg

Que escuchaba los colores

Azul

Lila

Naranja

(do-mi bemol y fa sostenido)

the borrowers

2012-01-31T22:10:00.002Z

and so, they started to write

themselves

it wasn’t an ink-on-paper sort of thing

it was a construction

like building blocks

creating a 3D imaginary

borrowing from you, and

me, and I

borrowed

and you borrowed

her scent

and the pace at which she used to blink

and the way she tilted her head when

she didn’t understand what was

going on

and i took the way you moved

in my head

and i took the way his arms looked when they flexed holding something heavy

and his body temperature

and the way his chest moved up

and

down

when he made an effort

and the weird way he would pronounce certain

British words

and i built

and everything was building up

and so, i wrote it down

This is not Russell Edson's "The Sardine Can Dormitory" (1977)

2011-08-11T21:04:00.004Z

A man opens a sardine can and finds a row of tiny cots full of tiny

dead people; it is a dormitory flooded with oil.

He lifts out the tiny bodies with a fork and lays them on a slice

of bread; puts a leaf of lettuce over them, and closes the sandwich

with another slice of bread.

He wonders what he should do with the tiny cots; wondering if

they are not eatable, too?

He looks into the can and sees a tiny cat floating in the oil. The

bottom of the can, under the oil, is full of little shoes and stockings.

And I know that many people have said this before me, but this is not a pipe either.

The New Sentence

2011-08-09T14:03:00.005Z

Pretty words I found reading Ron Silliman.

Some of them, he meant to write but didn't get to.

hallucinated

dreamlike

interwoven

emphasis

closure

rhythm

absence

shaping

syllogistic move

deduce

huracán

emotional

The sentence is the horizon,

border

torque

polysemy

silencio

líquido

Vegetaciones criptógamas o el sol del membrillo

2011-03-17T16:45:00.012Z

Un hombrecillo (1)

toca a mi puerta esta mañana

con una mascarilla (2)

amarilla (3)

Sus nudillos (4)

contra la madera color

uva pasa.

Pasa, a mi casa mientras

tamborilea contra

un cubo de plástico. (5)

Su verde mano,

plástico guante, viene

a limpiar el moho que ha crecido en mi

bañera criptógama.

"I come for you"

balbucea con cohibido acento

foráneo. Yo también soy

de fuera.

"I'll be right back, I need to

take care of my laundry" y señalo y afirmo con la cabeza.

Se mete en mi baño

con su máscara de gas

y sus sprays tóxicos,

el hombrecillo extraño.

Y unos suspiros de walkie-talkie le siguen.

"You put fan on?" "fan" "fan"

señala, señala, suspira, inspira. Exhala.

"I'm not a fan of fans but I don't think that one works very well"

(6)

"I take look at it"

Sus ojos rasgados

o me odian o desconfían del buen uso que yo le doy

a mi ventilador, o sonríen. A saber. Será lo mismo.

Sólo veo la mascarilla

amarilla y el olor

del mata-moho.

Cubre con pintura blanca el sol.

Pintor del moho.

Now he's gone and I'm feeling a little

dizzy. High on anti-mold.

*Notas

(1) me gusta el sufijo -illo. Me suena a Antonio López. A sol de membrillo

(2) -illa

(3) íbid

(4) Nudos. Intro. Y conclusión. La película "El sol del membrillo" (Quince Tree of the Sun (1992) fue dirigida por Víctor Erice) Se ven manos y nudillos, sol y membrillos.

(5) leí en no sé qué entrevista que al escritor Agustín Fernández Mallo le gustaba mucho el plástico, que le daba buen rollo y que, sin embargo, desconfiaba de la madera. No sé cuánto de esto es verdad y cuánto me lo he inventado yo misma. Y como no recuerdo dónde lo leí, tampoco puedo ir citándolo en ensayos ni nada por el estilo. Pero qué maravilla, desconfiar de la madera. A mí me encanta, aunque enmohezca.

(6) (he ignores my clever pun)

Posavasos moliente

2011-03-15T15:07:00.006Z

En vez de escribir, cambio templates y backgrounds.

Creo que también es escribir.

No voy a teorizar sobre ello, pero tiene algo que ver con la yuxtaposición y el montaje.

Al fin y al cabo, parece que todo en esta vida es metáfora. Hasta el posavasos junto a este laptop. Hela ahí, [1] otra metáfora material común y corriente.

Y en inglés es coaster. Como roller coaster pero para poner el vaso. Dime tú que eso no es raro. Se te caería todo y salpicaría a otros pasajeros.

Coaster or Coasters may refer to:

A beverage coaster on which to rest glasses of beverage
Coaster (San Diego), the San Diego Coast Express Rail, a regional rail service in San Diego County, California
Coaster (album), by punk rock band NOFX
The Coasters, an American doo-wop band
Toyota Coaster, a minibus
Coaster, slang for an improperly burned optical disc, or sometimes a movie or music disc that is considered artistically bad.
Coaster brake, a type of bicycle brake
Coaster Step, a dance step
Roller coaster, an amusement ride
Coastal trading vessel, a ship used for trade between locations on a coastline
Coaster trout, brook trout found in Lake Superior
Demonym for people from the West Coast Region of New Zealand

Notas:

[1] Hela ahí o Helahí, suena a isla o esclava griega. También me hace pensar en mi abuela Aurora que me llamaba "prenda". Vaya posesivo tan denigrante, ahora que lo pienso. Entre denigrante y tierno. Lo que suelen ser los polos de mi vida. Pero no los de Frigo. Que en inglés se llaman Wall's y también tienen un corazón por logo.

Engendro olvidado

2011-02-22T05:08:00.003Z

Y pensar que me paso el día escribiendo... y se me había olvidado que solía escribir un blog. Casi un año desde aquel último poema rosa y ese cuentico de los hombrecillos verdes, que no ese rayo verde... sino un semáforo californiano. Había pensado en crear un link a otro blog más sabio, más erudito, más a juego con mi rol doctoral... ponerme a escribir ahí grandes descubrimientos y análisis literarios que harían las delicias del estudiante de doctorado y el escritor en ciernes... pero creo que lo dejaré para mis aires de grandeza personales y los deleites académicos de mi director de tesis.

Pobre blog olvidado... y vaya instinto maternal más raro me ha entrado cuando hoy me han hecho volver a percibirte, a ver lo desganado que estabas... me he visto obligada a cambiarte el template como el que cambia un pañal meado... pobrín. Cosita mía. Extraña ternura que me despierta mi engendro en la Red.

Ahí queda eso, Doctora Saum. Quizás algún día cuelgues alguna perla académica. O quizás no. Quizás ésas se queden para las conferencias y demás consorcios y coteries y yo me reduzca a estos poemicas insustanciales que solían llenar mis días sintácticos americanos... porque esto empezó como un ejercicio de estilo, que se sepa, para aprender a escribir en inglés mientras estudiaba para mi GRE. De ahí salió el primer poema.

Bubble Gum Saints

2010-05-28T17:26:00.005Z

I get a smell of chewing gum in

my apartment now

and then

and I don't know where

it comes from.

Pink and sweet, just like

how they told me chewy

Saints smell like.

Not Santa Rita,

because she stunk. Man, she

was one smelly Saint.

La de los Casos Perdidos.

I smell my holy sweet

wholly Pink bubble gum and I

wonder

who is chewing in my

ROOM

summer's (lost) seams

2010-05-17T16:43:00.018Z

Embrace

your head

i long (for)

my arms around it

like the pillow you rock in your R.E.M.

the slightly moist feeling

of your coconut hair

cushioning my fall

on your cheek

your mind's sunny rim

a blond Caribbean beach

or a Long Island

of golden threads

and moon waters

(for)

i long.

I look at the horizon

of this virtual loss

i long (___) our island

and its corn seams

but it is_____lost (?)

______(not)

i'm just a_____ girl writing

_______(Lost)

___________words

and_________your eyes_______look so blue_______

___(I) (guess)_________(don't)__________(anymore)

Pabellones VI

2010-04-20T22:02:00.003Z

"K. murió de tuberculosis. Su laringe quedó ocluida y no podía hablar ni comer. Ni, por supuesto, cantar. Tomarse a pecho la cuestión del canto --como le pasó a Josefina-- es contar con una laringe que funciona en cualquier circunstancia. Así de simple. En algún momento K. hizo un gesto para que le habilitasen la mano de escribir. Y ahí fue donde se formó el show (display or exhibit) en el sanatorio. Ver a K. tratando de escribir al mismo nivel de la laringe defectuosa, verlo raspar y raspar, como un pelele, la página en blanco"

Ronaldo Sánchez Mejías, Cálculo de lindes.

Little Green Men

2010-04-12T17:59:00.005Z

No le gusta esta ciudad y, sin embargo, no se atreve a marcharse. Parece que todas las ciudades sean la misma, una gran carretera, un paso de zebra, un camión blanco como un elefante. No hay que pensar en el elefante blanco.

Camina camino a casa, el caminante no hace camino al andar. Inmediatamente se convierte en algo ajeno a la ciudad, un extraño extraído de allá donde debiera estar, protegido por algo, un coche, un edificio, una oficina, algo. Y yo, yo camino.

Va sola y pega el sol. Piensa en lo de moda que están los melanomas y también se le ocurre que sería un buen nombre para un grupo de rock. Los melanomas. Toma. Toma melanoma. Pero hoy en día, quién escucha rock. Aprieta el botón, ése que también está tan de moda en todos los semáforos de la costa oeste --aunque puede que éste sea ya un fenómeno mundial-- y se para a esperar a que el muñequito cambie de color. Los hombrecitos aquí no son verdes, todo está descolorido a golpe de calor, los hombrecitos californianos que día a día desafían al melanoma son más bien tirando a blanco elefante.

Pita el semáforo para los ciegos (Inciso: jamás he visto un ciego caminando por la calle en California) (Jamás hay más de tres personas a la vista caminando en California, pero eso es condición de vivir en el desierto) (Si estas personas fueran, además, ciegas, jamás se verían) (Pero yo no soy ciega --creo-- y jamás he visto un ciego en el sur de California) (Jamás suena a jamón. Fin del inciso) Cruza la calle sufriendo por el melanoma y por la exposición social, total outcast, what's that girl doing out, where's her car?

Siempre ha tenido la manía de mirar dentro de las cosas, los coches, las casas... hay un edificio también blanco a la derecha, es una especie de urbanización, unos pisos que suelen alquilar estudiantes y jardineros mexicanos pobres con niños a los que visten con pantalón de chandal rosa, calcetines blancos y flip flops. Con el pelo negro largo, despeinado, a media cola de caballo, siempre se los ve jugando al otro lado de la verja. Hay muchas verjas en el desierto de California, nunca se sabe quién va a querer entrar.

Camina rápido fingiendo que sabe a donde va, alguien le dijo que sólo así evitaría a los violadores o secuestradores, vampiros, caníbales, criminales varios que rondan al acecho por estos lares tan soleados del ghetto donde vive. Un ghetto curiosamente universitario. Al otro lado de la verja, fija su mirada en un viejo que la mira aferrado a los barrotes, con boina y bastón. Typical Spanish. Yo creo que es mi abuelo y sostengo la mirada, hasta el punto de afirmar que sí, se trata de él, aunque murió hace ya un año. Sigo caminando, paso de largo: cosas más raras se han visto al sur de California.

Inward voices

2010-02-22T19:07:00.001Z

"Ever since I was first read to, then started reading to myself, there has never been a line read that I didn’t hear. As my eyes followed the sentence, a voice was saying it silently to me. It isn’t my mother’s voice, or the voice of any person I can identify, certainly not my own. It is human, but inward, and it is inwardly that I listen to it. It is to me the voice of the story or the poem itself. The cadence, whatever it is that asks you to believe, the feeling that resides in the printed word, reaches me through the reader-voice. I have supposed, but never found out, that this is the case with all readers--to read as listeners--and with all writers, to write as listeners" (Eudora Welty)

Wintry Helper

2010-01-22T18:25:00.003Z

“Give me your hand, child, I’ll tuck it in my pocket.

Close your eyes, child, tight against the snow.”

Eyelashes with little milky dew,

Sealing everything together

With frosty iced glue.

It was a snowstorm,

And you remember it because you had

Never seen anything like it before.

Your hand had been given away in a strange pocket

It was too cold to feel it anymore.

And yet, the bitter wind felt like an ally

A wintry helper took your Californian soul.

You are now running on low battery

2010-01-21T23:12:00.008Z

one wet afternoon

i found myself looking for those few

escapist words

i was soaked to the core by

rivers outside and inside running

dirty thick almost sweet

i searched all around

your name my sweet darling

ain’t paper anymore

remnant of the liquid word

remnant of your liquid tongue

dirty thick flowing rhyming

you'll drink my mouth all

easy rhymes rhyming with

your name

after mine

trapped in books

florescent

white

your image is so bright

your eyes don’t look so blue anymore

I pump in ink

2009-11-01T07:54:00.007Z

I am a poetry chick

I pump in ink.

Like the Egyptians and their papyrus

I tattoo your skin.

My spit

Covers you,

Bathes you,

Warms you,

Conforts you,

Saves you,

Blankets you.

My spit is my word,

My love for you.

I'm a lyric girl as

You know

I am a poetry chick.

You can come with me in

My mouth

Warm and deep

Like three syllable words

Are Moist

And they spit

At you.

Inside of you,

It erupts.

Like a melodic volcano that

Caresses you in a way

Which makes you

UNCOMFORTABLE.

I'm a poetry chick,

Find me a rooster to lay.

Find those eggs full of

WISDOM

And brake the shells.

Slippery,

A zero calorie home,

Transparent and full,

You are a bubble girl, my friend.

There is room for you under my membrane.

Back yard

2009-11-01T03:04:00.004Z

She decided she wasn't feeling well.

She left.

He left holding her hand and she

Felt the tight grasp was cutting the air.

It was a normal routine,

Choreographed dynamics.

Maybe she had drunk too much

Or maybe that corpse under their bed had

Started to rot

To smell so strong that had

Been all

Inhaled by her. She was breathing in death.

They didn't know who it was, as

They just found the body in their back yard.

She wanted to call the police but

He decided they should keep it.

It'll be safer with us.

Where can we put it?

Under the bed, it's too tall to try to make it sit in a closet

And our clothes will smell.

Late at night, she imagined a soft,

Soft breathing in

And breathing out...

She had stopped sleeping,

It reeks in here, please, let's just throw it away.

You can't just dump a corpse,

Are you crazy?

You are crazy, you are fucking bonkers.

I don't know how we even thought saving a corpse from

Its natural rotting life was ever a good idea.

I like how it smells, it breathes life into me.

Don't you think?

I can't sleep. I'm not feeling well.

I wan't to go.

And there was no going anywhere. She had already gone.

She was lying under the bed. Breathing in

Breathing out.

Damien's Accidental Babies

2009-10-28T21:56:00.005Z

Sometimes I feel there is no need to paraphrase. Sometimes, some people, say it all. And they say it well. Like Mr Rice:

"I held you like a lover.
Happy hands and

Your elbow in the appropriate place.

And we ignored our others,

Happy plans
For that delicate look upon your face.

Our bodies moved and hardened;
Hurting parts of your garden,
With no room for a pardon
In a place where no one knows

What we have done.

Do you come together ever with him?

And is he dark enough?
Enough to see your light?

And do you brush your teeth before you kiss?
Do you miss my smell?
And is he bold enough to take you on?
Do you feel like you belong?

And does he drive you wild?
Or just mildly free?
What about me?

Well you held me like a lover.
Sweaty hands
And my foot in the appropriate place.

And we use cushions to cover
Happy glands
In the mild issue of our disgrace.

Our minds pressed and guarded
While our flesh disregarded
The lack of space for the light-hearted
In the boom that beats our drum.

And I know I make you cry,
And I know sometimes you wanna die,
But do you really feel alive without me?
If so, be free.

If not, leave him for me,
Before one of us has

Accidental babies.

For we are in love"

Damien Rice, Accidental Babies, 9

A lyric girl

2009-10-22T04:42:00.002Z

And then she realized she was part of literature.

Not the history or its theoretical reminiscences, but an actual living part, like a plot or a theme; a central metaphor, a humming bird. A lyric girl.

She was carrying herself as books had told her. She lived in ink.

She could only interpret relationships following Baudelaire's will. She tried to be mysterious and part of the Generation X. She longed for being a savage detective. She was Illuminations and Figures III. She was sick with the Montano malady.

And she had been told before. You are too analytical, my dear. Too cold, too ungrammatical... to much of a linear love. Generation Y.

You make your own speech and reality, those people don't exist. Stop trying to see through the fog, there is only fog out there. And houses, and cars, and street lights and meaningless sex. An awful amount of reflectance beasts. Your heart pumping gas.

She made boys fall in love with her only to write about it. She was that paperful.

Paperless.

She yearned to read love stories and feel identified, mutter love sentences as a remembered speech. She was that powerful.

And she started reading herself, like a short story. Like a fast food menu. She was the millennium burger, the combo #2.

Powerless.

She was an entry at the yellow pages and a Facebook page. And all the graphic sounds, and all the kings men, couldn't put her back together again.

She fell out of love after a good 150 pages and 2 days.

Rampant melody

2009-10-20T06:47:00.006Z

Bright noises,

Boisterous thoughts,

I scream for you,

In my head. It's all about

Me and this rampant melody.

Symphony of

Sighs, and ifs...

Too many sharp notes,

Jumping from site to site,

Twitching the core,

The main core of this

Rampant melody.

When did you start muttering

Biting songs

Inside my mind? Reading in

Between the

Lines of this autobiography?

But there is no you,

You are my honed me.

It's all about

Me and this rampant melody.

Free rein to curiosity

2009-10-11T18:58:00.009Z

Curiosity

Tends to enjoy a free rein.

A hand is placed on a

Knee. Slightly warm, slightly

Moist.

Lift it and the rim,

Slightly darker,

Like steam, caresses me.

A word is whispered.

Barely breathing, its humid wave

Crisps me.

Bracing... the back of a neck.

Sweating hot and cold.

Soft and starred: white night.

Sleepless cotton hope.

Your breath, like vapor, bounces of

My fervent skin. Slightly shaking,

The wet stain of a kiss.

A temple, that spot under my chin,

Your words bounce back.

Chest, stomach,

That spot behind my knee,

All crisp.

Brisk.

Curiosity.

Now tends to enjoy a free rein.

Aqua-gym

2009-10-07T04:09:00.006Z

Ladylike in a recreation pool,

I feel myself trying to do push-ups

And underwater crunches.

The water prunes me and shows

My true age. I'm sixty

And

Twelve years old.

Underwater and moist,

Wet and soft;

Tender, like a new born.

Swimming comes natural

To babies and dogs,

You and I had to be trained,

Taught how not to drown.

And we jump,

Lift our left

Leg up.

Torso tight,

Tight hold.

Tight grasp,

To tight breathe,

Breathing in,

Don't breathe in or

You'll sink.

My every day is like aqua-gym.

Enduring Girth

2009-07-06T11:48:00.014Z

(published in The Main Street Journal, Spring 09)

It's a cumbersome love and I do not know where to put it.

I found it on my doorstep one gusty day at

The beginning of fall.

Someone must have rung the bell and run away.

Hit and run,

I understand now

Why that's considered a criminal offense.

The wind chilled my skin like a martini

Should be served and the light was crisp. My hands

Were a little stiff because of my congealed blood,

Running in clots.

Sandpaper wrapped my knuckles as I tried to pick up

My new unwieldy love. Slippery.

Sharp corners and brittle signs.

I surrounded it with both arms as if hugging a box. As if

Lifting a keg of love.

Enduring girth.

My back bent as I pretended to be a vise and I prepared

To pull.

A coterie of leaves were the only witnesses of my effort.

Nothing moved.

I first thought I could leave it there; let it be

A new addition to

My porch

Decoration.

True,

It got in my way.

Grocery bags, cat hair and a wild

List of knickknack junk

Kept being kept in its mucky web. Rain and autumn

Had done their scurrilous job and

My love

Looked forgotten, in its quiescent wait.

A remnant of my failure to

Bring it indoors.

Its wrapping started tearing away but I did

Nothing about it.

I tried to frighten it away. It simply wouldn't move.

My stagnant love.

I thought of selling the house but

Who would want such cumbersome

Devotion?

Deciduous fall passed and the deceiving keg stayed.

What willpower, may I say!

Piecemeal, I began to accept it. Good

Morning and have a nice day when leaving the house,

Welcome back at my return.

Yes, sometimes my coat would get caught by one of its

Sharp corners.

Yet, I didn't mind anymore.

A brackish kiss in the mornings,

An awkward hug at night.

A cup of coffee sitting on my porch,

Protecting my love from the cold. Like a spawning hen.

A cigarette, reading a book.

I started missing it when I went to work and I

Would rush back home

To tether it in hasty caresses and kind words.

Tight against its girth I would imagine a heart beat.

Certezas empíricas

2009-01-28T22:04:00.004Z

Alexandra Saum Pascual, Madrid 1985, estaba leyendo un libro que había tomado prestado de la biblioteca esa misma mañana cuando, sin previo aviso, se encontró con tres caracteres chinos bajo la palabra "entraña". Tal descubrimiento le hizo preguntarse qué tipo de persona habría leído a Octavio Paz antes que ella. Qué tipo de persona habría sentido la necesidad de buscar, quizás, la palabra "entraña" en su diccionario de chino. O habría sentido el gatillo del bolígrafo dispararse tras leer "la abertura de nuestro ser entraña una dimensión de toda nuestra hombría" e, inevitablemente, había escrito aquello que esos tres caracteres significaban.

Mientras su mente cavilaba sobre las ilimitadas posibilidades de leer a Octavio Paz en chino, Alexandra tomó un sorbo de su café. Había ido a una cafetería a matar un poco el tiempo entre clase y clase y descubrió que el líquido que bebía estaba aún más caliente que cuando se lo sirvieron. Tamaña revelación le hizo preguntarse si las leyes de la física estarían invirtiéndose hoy para ella. ¿Qué pasaría si las hipótesis y certezas empíricas que gobiernan nuestra vida hubieran sido invertidas por un día? El café se calentaría cada vez más en vez de enfriarse, siendo imposible beberlo sin quemarse la punta de la lengua y seríamos, quizás, un día más jóvenes al acostarnos.

Alexandra pensó que no habría ninguna diferencia entre ir hacia adelante o hacia atrás, mientras sólo fuera por un día. Quién sabe, quizás estos tres caracteres en chino fueran una consecuencia alucinógena del café que se calentaba mágicamente o puede que siempre hubieran sido parte del laberinto de Paz. O quizás, un hombre en Lanzhou esté leyendo ahora esto mismo que Alexandra pensaba mientras creía leer un artículo digital, justo después de quemarse la lengua con su té de la mañana.

Newark 2009
A.

Perlas de la lengua

2009-01-22T15:06:00.005Z

Rafael Sánchez Ferlosio decía así hoy en el País.com en una sección de apuntes titulada Precios. El Mal es un comodín ideológico:

Se encuentran a veces en los textos más modestos como aquel de Las hijas de un sevillano que cantan las niñas saltando a la comba: "Un día a la más pequeña / le tiró la inclinación / de irse a servir al rey / vestidita de varón". ¡Pero qué maravilla es esa de "le tiró la inclinación"!

Perlas de la lengua española, sí, señor.

Crooning Milk

2008-12-16T15:54:00.003Z

Drinking out of the bottle.
Cold milk pouring down the corner
Of your mouth,
Like a white morning spring.

You use the tip of your sleeve
To try to contain it;
A tethering touch, a dam
At the tip of your tongue.

And you wait for the kettle to croon,
At cockcrow,
Like a hot morning stream.
Warm water sunrise melody.

Sizzling springs and mesmerizing
Coffee pots.
Crystal cereal crispy waiting
For the sudden sodden flood.

Sitting in front of your PC,
Soaking it all in,
Breathing deeply for the first time today.
It's morning folks,
Go get a glass of OJ!

A.

Passing Time

2008-12-11T13:30:00.002Z

By Maya Angelou

Your skin like dawn
Mine like musk

One paints the beginning
Of a certain end.

The other, the end of a
Sure beginning.

Laundry Laureate

2008-11-13T13:19:00.011Z

Numb elbow,
Cotton arm,
Sometimes I cycle myself in the warm.

I centrifuge my mind.

Anti-wrinkle spin.

New label
Softener born,
Sometimes I fold myself back to front.

I iron my mind.

A hit of steam.

Going back home,
Returning to the hole.
Sometimes a I drown myself in a machine's womb.

I drain my mind.

A drop of bleach.

Rinsed grammar,
And shrunk verses.
Sometimes I lose myself in artificial mazes.

I whiten my mind.

A

Para Diego

2008-10-24T00:45:00.004Z

Te has acostumbrado los ojos

a mirar, como hacen los valientes,

directo a la luz,

al tiempo que yo rechazo

despegarme la sábana,

e invento,

excusas (tan de otoño)

enfrentando mi cuerpo a la mentira

hasta vencer las piernas

al salir

y convencerte que es un día más.

Tal vez ahora lleguemos a entendernos

aunque ya no recuerde

el sabor de un cumpleaños.

A?

Felicidades, Diego, te regalo un poema, tu poema, pero cambiado, alejandrado.
Me gustó mucho. Quizás sí tengas que celebrar tus años.

Homecoming Homegoing

2008-10-18T14:27:00.008Z

Ten guests for breakfast

all wearing jeans and sweaters.

Blue, golden, yellow.

Wakey, wakey,

eggs and bakey.

One intruder

showering in the dark,

rejecting the mimosa kiss,

not raising the bar.

She's not awake yet.

She crawls, she moans.

She gives away a pork smile.

She chucks on a piece of toast.

Ten greasy dishes,

ten sticky grins.

Another eggy morning.

Wakey, wakey,

eggs and bakey.

American Lunch Box

2008-09-21T13:44:00.018Z

I never ate at a US school cafeteria but my mind stole that TV imagery and packed it tightly in a blue tin box. I am part of your everyday American lunch.

I am life experience thief.

I will go after your peanut

Butter and jelly sandwich

Before I even know it exists.

Global thirst is my

Target.

Condensed milk in your

Tea.

Soy beans and Spanish

Ham,

Hunger of the red and white

Brand.

Golden arches hold my

Universal childhood's swing:

It's the world's endless playground,

Come and spice my

Chicken wings.

I grew up in an Oxo castle.

I had Marmite to spread.

Animal blood,

Black pudding,

Capitalism in Paris.

I am a life experience thief.

I'm your hunger,

I'm your thirst.

Take me out or dine me in.

Cross me out of every menu,

Or I'll try to eat you first.

Imagine the USA

2008-09-08T14:47:00.010Z

Imagine you are to cross the United States of America by car in two weeks. Let's make this hypothetical situation a bit more realistic by garnishing it with some juicier details. For example, let's imagine the car you're driving is a white Acura Integra, 1990, called Lisa. Let's imagine you have Morcheeba paying on the external CD player that really did it for you when you were considering if buying that car was a good idea in the first place. Imagine you decide to start your trip in Newark, Delaware, and imagine your final destination is Phoenix, Arizona. Originally you wanted to go as far as California, but you have realized that you don't have enough time, or money for those extra miles. However, you leave some space in your imagination for a two-day excursion to the Grand Canyon.

Now, imagine you are in that car, zooming across States and borders. And now imagine you decide to play a game noting down all the different State number plates you see on the road. Well, here is the list you will have by the end of your journey:

Delaware
Pennsylvania
New Jersey
New York
Virginia
West Virginia
North Carolina
Maryland
South Carolina
Ohio 10
Kentucky
Massachusetts
Mississippi
Missouri
Texas
Oklahoma
Wisconsin
Alabama
Maine
Kansas 20
Indiana
Iowa
Illinois
Tennessee
Georgia

(At this point your blue pen has ran out of ink and you change to a black Sharpie)

Michigan
Utah
Florida
Minnesota
South Dakota 30
California
Arkansas
Washington
New Mexico
Nebraska
Idaho
Louisiana
North Dakota
Hawaii
Montana 40

Nevada

Colorado
Wyoming

(Here you draw an horizontal line. In your mind you know you are separating US States from other countries. You don't have much space left, so this area looks a bit messy)

Ontario
Vancouver
Hong Kong
Sonora
Chihuahua

Los poemas de Gloria Ocariz

2008-07-24T09:43:00.005Z

Amiga Gloria, esto es lo menos que puedo hacer por ti.
Esperemos que el mundo comparta tu gloria.

"Un pajarillo cantando
me despertó esta mañana
y, en su cántico me dijo:
¡Que me voy a La Solana!
Porque hoy, 21 de Abril,
Cumple años tu hermana.
¡Espera, que voy contigo!
le grité.
Me levanté de la cama.
Me afeité, puse un abrigo.
Presto llegué a la ventana y,
el pájaro se había ido.
Miré y lo vi, alto, muy alto volaba,
Con dirección muy segura,
Derechito a La Solana
Le grité por si me oía:
¡Un beso dale a mi hermana!
Y, como era muy temprano,
Me fui de nuevo a la cama"

Gloria Ocariz Partearroyo

"Ya se fueron las sombras
de la noche a esos mundos
en donde la quietud del corazón va buscando
la calma que no da la vida"

Gloria Ocariz Partearroyo

"La lluvia va cayendo
Y el farol se va apagando
¿Cuáles son los pensamientos de
los que pasan por la calle?
Aquel amor que se fue o
Aquel trabajo que no llegó.
Esperemos mejores tiempos"

Gloria Ocariz Partearroyo

A Gloria la conocí mientras trabajaba en el Centro de Día de la Comunidad de Madrid de la calle Sagasta, era una de las socias y su compañía hizo, sin duda, que ir a trabajar fuera un poco más ameno.
A.

Cliché a punto de caramelo

2008-07-22T08:51:00.004Z

Con el alma
De caramelo
-¡Cliché!
Líquido que se escurre entre
-¡Cliché!
Mis dedos.

Al indiferente aire de tu suspiro
-¡Cliché!
Me cristalizo, me esponjo
A punto de nieve
-¡Cliché!
Deconstructiva y creativa
-¡Cliché!
Como un novedoso plato de cocina
Que te dejo rebañar entre
-¡Cliché!
Mis dedos.

"¡Come, come, que el mundo es tuyo, Lazarillo!"
-¡Cliché!
Ojos como ventanas al abismo
-¡Cliché!
Oculto tras las manchas de grasa entre
¡Cliché!
Tus dedos

A

Piel de borrego

2008-07-22T08:42:00.006Z

Así pasan las horas, como de bolero, desesperadas.
Y tú me dices que me deje de lirismo, que está pasado de moda. Que sea más castiza, más de cerdo a la Riojana.
Pues estoy harta, harta, te digo,
tanto "quizás, quizás, quizás", a ver si no vas a ser tú el de la piel de
Cancionero
Romancero
Cuentero
Cuentista
Gitano
El rey del relato breve y de excusa.
Yo tomaré fragmentos prestados (como decía Martina Klein, los hombres estáis todos tarados, con taras,
Maleados).
¿Pero cómo no hacerlo si estamos contaminados, mezclados?
Mézclate conmigo,
Abrigo
De borrego.
Y tan difícil saber dónde empieza tu cuerpo y termina el mío.
¿Qué es mío? Tú
Quizás.
Tus quizás
Quizás,
Quizás.

A.

Cantinela del participio en cinco minutos

2008-06-21T09:31:00.004Z

Secretos en aquella red
Antimosquitos
Envueltos como sobras
En film en
Una nevera del
Trópico o del
Ecuador que para el caso
Es lo mismo.

Prestados los vericuetos de Jorge
Sabido que nada es secreto en la
Era informática. Más
Satisfechos y ufanos. Faltos
De retórica.
La imaginación de una quinceañera,
Que siempre seas tú el que muerda
Mi lengua y
Que siempre sea mi sostén el que cuelgue de
Tu silla.

Photoshop plenamente romántico
Que resten atávicos los celos y archivos
Manipulados.
Modificada la luz del recuerdo,
Amordazado por la tenue línea de tu
Sonrisa.

En medio del océano o
Bebiendo de la parra,
El orden de los factores
seguirá siendo el mismo.

A.

Picnic

2008-05-25T21:14:00.004Z

En un increíble momento de gracia
Se ribeteaban versos, a puntadas de ensalada
De verano, de tomates y patatas
De mantelería fina y tierna cubertería de usar
Y tirar.

Sonreía y se imaginaba vista desde fuera
Como una escena de un anuncio de champú
Lisa y sedosa su
Sonrisa de agua, de patata, de sal y limón
Sus dientes repletos de poesía
Dientes panteístas llenos de alegría
Y de mantelería fina y cubertería aún mejor.

Una caña con migas de pan,
Las hormigas correteando pierna arriba,
El zumbido de su amiga, el sueño panzón,
El revolcón sobre la mantelería fina,
Poniéndose a tiro,
Y los vasos rojos de cartón.

A.

Echoes

2008-05-25T19:28:00.002Z

What you read now will disappear.
Will flow and blow away in a momentary
graceful state. Occupying again the space
occupied in my shallow embrace.

A
*Free interpretation of one of Jorge Drexler's echoes.

suicidium; sui caedere

2008-05-13T01:12:00.002Z

Suicide.n. The intentional killing of oneself. Ironically, in most states (US) suicide is a crime, but if successful there is no one to punish.

Carmen's Interlocutor, my drawer

2008-04-30T01:49:00.008Z

Carmen Martín Gaite said that her need for writing came from her constant and failed search for the perfect interlocutor and insisted upon the fact that people wouldn't need to write if they had someone who would listen. She was so obsessed about this some critics considered her work mono-thematic, saying that frustrated search was the one and only topic of her novels. I won't go as far as calling this lady "obsessive" but she did write a book called The Perfect Interlocutor.

In my case, the search is a little more modest. Around 1994 I started writing a diary. I can't really recall the exact date as all my memories of primary school are just that, primary school, and I seem to have stored all memories from 1988 (when I believe it's my first memory) to 1997 in the same box. Nearly ten years of infant life tangled in the same drawer, all mixed up with socks and knickers. (That it's clearly an exaggeration for I would never dare to mix socks and knickers, that'll be simply too chaotic).

The fact is, I seem to be writing increasingly less. Funny that, increasingly (like those red lines in graphs) less (like skimmed yogurts). I am one of those people that would expose themselves to the slightest sympathetic smile and will dump all their mental dribble there and then. Should I be quieter and write it all instead? I do need to improve my writing skills.

a.

The Sugary Turmoil of a Rugger Bugger (pink icing version)

2008-03-28T15:49:00.018Z

Icing decorations:

Tulle tutu.
She spins and spins like sugar.
Tutu tulle.
Confectionery light pink frugal
Sugar for baking,
For dancing,
For spinning around her.
Like the sprocket wheel of
A desperate housewife in a condo gym.
Bugger.

Rugger. Ruggering balls, kicked around her,
Buffeting her like a prawn in a 10 dollar buffet.
Macho men eating nachos, cheesing off, edible fair.
For baking,
For fasting,
For fluttering around her.
Like the dustless wing of
A desperate moth under children power.
Buffalo wings.

Under the icing decorations:

What are little girls made of?
"Sugar and spice, and all that's nice;
That's what little girls are made of."

What are little boys made of?
"Snaps and snails, and puppy-dog's tails;
That's what little boys are made of."

A.

2008-02-29T00:52:00.007Z

"¿Conoces al boticario del pueblo al lado de Candelario?
En vez de cabeza,
Tiene una cereza.
No ve ni torta, claro."

(Do you know the apothecary
from that village next to Candelario?
Instead of a head,
He's got a cherry.
He's as blind as a bat, of course)

Laurence Saum wrote something like this years and years ago and for some strange reason his daughter remembered it today.

Bleak Rabbits

2008-02-28T14:44:00.003Z

Long, lank, bleak,
Black or dark blue.
He always left them behind,
Every morning I would find
One of them.
Heydays, even two.

Long, lank, bleak,
Black or dark blue.
He would ogle down to them
With tender resolution,
A pamper touch,
A cushioning nest,
They deserved a good
Long day rest. In
His denim left pocket.

Long, lank, bleak,
Black or dark blue.
I would get dressed
And perfumed in ink scent, I
Would give a cursory look
On the skew, a
Scanty glimpse
Of his stationary jewelry.
Color scrutiny,
Bleak black or dark blue.

Why would he left them behind?
Didn't he care for them?
He was devoted to their shape,
Color and baneful intentions.
I had seen it happen,
Seen them laying abandoned,
On my murky desk,
Waiting for the grasp
Of his right brown hand,
A lift, an elevation,
A jean, a tight warren,
For pens, for they are not rabbits,
Long, lank, bleak,
Black or dark blue.

A.

Peasant Patch

2008-02-24T22:41:00.015Z

"Fold your hands,
Child,
You walk like a peasant"

Going to the vegetable
Patch,
Choosing the right peas to
Carry in your apron pocket.

Pocketing little round
Worlds full of little round
Eyelashes wishes.
Green worlds born
Through your beetle eyes.

Choosing the shiniest
Cockroaches, the biggest
Sluggish slugs,
Sticky and with their tinny
Hearts ticking
Under their tender gluey skin.

So easy to squeeze.
He always cherished
His bugs.

The biggest bugger bug of all,
A king's fruity heart.

He took me to his vegetable patch,
He chose the roundest peas, and
His favorite slugs and marble beans.
A bugger world just for me.
I smiled and put it in my apron pocket.

A.

Sappy. Soap. Soup.

2008-02-24T00:01:00.003Z

Sappy.
Soap.
Soup.

Sappy, soapy soup.
Tomato soup
In a bread bowl.
In my T-shirt,
Running down my arm pit.

Pita bread,
Playing Ping-Pong
In bed.
A shower pond.

The soapy soup
Of our first shower,
Hot soup
And a spoon of glower.

Running drops,
Soapy soup,
Creamy me,
Sappy you.
The shiny smile,
Of curtailing steam.

A.

2008-02-19T22:56:00.002Z

In a manner of speaking
I was told
I loved your silence
Beyond words

Disgrace

2008-02-18T14:30:00.004Z

(Sometimes it's better to borrow someone else's words...)

But one day we woke to our disgrace; our house
a coldness of rooms, each nursing
a thickening cyst of dust and gloom.
We had not been home in our hearts for months.

And how our words changed. Dead flies in a web.
How they stiffened and blackened. Cherished italics
suddenly sour on our tongues, obscenities
spraying themselves on the wall in my head.

Woke to your clothes like a corpse on the floor,
the small deaths of lightbulbs pining all day
in my ears, their echoes audible tears;
nothing we would not do to make it worse

and worse. Into the night with the wrong language,
waving and pointing, the shadows of hands
huge in the bedroom. Dreamed of a naked crawl
from a dead place over the other; both of us. Woke.

Woke to an absence of grace; the still-life
of a meal, untouched, wine-bottle, empty, ashtray,
full. In our sullen kitchen, the fridge
hardened its cool heart, selfish as art, hummed.

To a bowl of apples rotten to the core. Lame shoes
empty in the hall where our voices asked
for a message after the tone, the telephone
pressing its ear to distant, invisible lips.

And our garden bowing its head, vulnerable flowers
unseen in the dusk as we shouted in silhouette.
Woke to the screaming alarm, the banging door,
the house-plants trembling in their brittle soil. Total

Disgrace. Up in the dark to stand at the window,
counting the years to arrive there, faithless,
unpenitent. Woke to the meaningless stars, you
and me both, lost. Inconsolable vowels from the next room.

Carol Ann Duffy. Mean Time

Saliva bomb

2008-02-17T20:28:00.006Z

You dropped the bomb
Y hace frío en mi corazón.

Like an obliterating storm
Revolviéndolo todo a mi alredor.

Nothing keeps me from swallowing
Mi corazón de hielo,
But it's too cold and hard and
I need to ask you for help.
Un torrente de saliva, caliente.
La mía,
Or is it yours?

Escupe dentro de mí.

A.

Transcription Note

2008-02-15T15:30:00.005Z

Transcription Note

I believe it is about time to open the contents of this blog to public reading and criticism. I did not want to rush their cyberspace exposure as words are characterized by their volatile nature and hasty reading could have led to misunderstandings.

The pages included in this blog were found in a remote corner of conscience around December 2007 and ever since then I have carried out the task of translating and classifying them. As it happened with early 20th Century novels in Spain, the editor has remained loyal to the written words, maintaining the original style and even spelling mistakes, just as they appeared in the original notes. Nonetheless, as it happened then, the editor has chosen to delete and hide certain paragraphs and entries whose crudity could upset the gentle reader. The final result could be interpreted as maimed, but certain things are better kept quiet.

The eerie editor,
Kangaatsiaq, 15th February 2008

Traffic silhouettes

2008-02-11T14:30:00.007Z

A boy with a cherry flavor chap stick.
Long, black, plastic hair, wavy and reflecting
Red and green lights.
She can only see his
Silhouette.
Traffic and cherry drops of running condensation melting
On the window pane like a
Teenage peccadillo.

She lifts
A finger and presses
Against the glass.
A wake of mint and cherry shivers follow
Her. Half a hook starting from the top right, the beginning of a Spanish kiss.

They become silhouettes when their bodies finally met.

A.

2008-02-07T21:33:00.001Z

-I like the name: eerie conditions

If only you knew how really eerie they are

regular shooshee

2008-02-07T04:58:00.004Z

Today, talking to you, you kept repeating this Malay word whenever we had a coincidence. Podría escribir mi vida contando casualidades. I should pay more attention to real shit instead of gamboling from cloud to cloud.

Even now I feel the thrill of danger.

Man, I could kill for half a dozen Philly rolls.

Abbreviations

2008-02-07T04:58:00.001Z

Abbreviations: HUS, hemolytic uremic syndrome • D+ HUS, diarrhea-associated hemolytic uremic syndrome • DIC, disseminated intravascular coagulation • SP-HUS Streptococcus pneumoniae-associated hemolytic uremic síndrome